結び (musubi, tie/knot) (Bound 8/8)
Oct. 30th, 2019 09:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nrgburstCharacters: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Ned Stark, Robb Stark, Nymeria
Rating/Warnings: M, non-explicit sex, language, temporary character death
Word Count: ~6000
Summary: I once believed love would be burning red/But it's golden/Like daylight
Or read on Ao3 here if you prefer!
A/N: Aaaand she's done! Should have known when I was using this same icon to post my Gendrya stuff here that I would be red-string-of-fated to write this when the prompt came up. XD
It's a lovely, lavish wedding. Sansa is on her new husband's arm, glowing and perfectly beautiful. Her parents look proud and yet sad, somehow, though they're speaking warmly with the Freys. Rickon is laughing in the midst of a swarm of Frey girls. Roslin is obviously thrilled to be home showing off Ben and Robb, who is being his most charming.
She's never wanted anything like this.
And yet.
Even yelling would be preferable to the deafening silence. To him refusing to let her in.
She steals outside instead of going to the feast. She can't bear to sit across from that Waldron now.
The wide stone bridge is a marvel, and there's something soothing about standing in the middle, the wind pulling at her hair and the unending flow of water underneath. She knows she'll feel chilled eventually, although autumn here is not as cold as up North.
If only the wind could numb that ache in her chest instead of her skin. If only she could drop all these feelings into the river and have it carry them off to the ocean, lost, forgotten.
The light from the comet flickers, and she looks up. There are pieces breaking off it, spinning free and leaving glowing trails of their own.
Maybe it does know Sansa named her wedding after it. Or maybe it knows her own heart feels like it's breaking apart.
It's spectacular, anyway. She should probably call everybody outside to- it looks like one of the guards has already done so- people are streaming out the doors exclaiming and pointing.
Wait. Are those...?
No...
She's not afraid, despite the deafening roar. This must be what Bran saw all those years ago. She's always known she was going to die young.
The worst thing is seeing Sansa scream and seeing the helpless horror on her Father's face. Realizing her family is sharing her fate in this.
There's a split second of unbearable agony as her bones pulverize and flesh scorches.
And then what was Arya Stark is only glowing dust and memory.
(Arya? Arya? You- you don't know me at all, do you?)
Arya opens her eyes with a gasp, throat aching and tears blurring her vision.
Was that a dream? Or was that a memory?
It was so real- not hazy or fluid. As if she'd really felt herself blasted to ash; struck by the impossible weight and heat of a star. But of course, it couldn't...
She swipes at her eyes and stops abruptly.
She's in Gendry's body. On a cot in a small room with a door. She doesn't know where he is, but surely he's made it to the Crossroads by now.
She gulps and sits up, looking about anxiously for a note, but there's nothing but gray plank walls.
A rummage through his meager possessions reveals that the last stick of charcoal is gone too- he must have thrown it away.
She's probably only here because he fell asleep by mistake.
And she understands why he's so angry, understands that she's stranded him in some strange town with only Farmer Pell's promise of room and board until she arrives. But she'd been so sure Gendry would understand once he read her letter. Or at least tell her off instead of not bringing her journal at all; deliberately cutting off all communication.
She'd been so sure he cared for her too. She wishes she hadn't written how she felt about him now.
It's small consolation to finally know he's alive, at least, even if it hurts to have been so wrong.
She's deliberately quiet and cautious. The first time she'd wandered about in his body, she'd ended up blundering a lot and she doesn't want to make things between them even worse.
It seems Gendry has agreed to become an apprentice at the blacksmith here at the Crossroads instead of waiting for her at Farmer Pell's, like she'd arranged.
He'd rather stay here among strangers than come with her to Winterfell.
And it's like a slap in the face when one of the other apprentices relays why he probably feels that way.
“What kind of shitty smith leaves their tools and apron behind? “ he sneers, ”You must be mad as hornets. And you're lucky Master Ewan liked the way you forged that fancy sword, but don't think you can skip to Journeyman without earnin' a kit, city boy. You sure ain't usin' mine.”
Arya blanches, thinking of the tools on the workbench Gendry had been so protective of. The ones she'd just assumed belonged to the shop.
That she had left behind.
“...Wouldn't dream of it,” she says weakly.
How could she be so stupid?
She's shocked to wake in Gendry's body again the next morning. She stares at the planks above, struggling to understand.
He's doing something in her. He has to be. But what, and why?
No matter how badly she's ruined things for him before, he's never been vengeful or hurtful- he just yells and then moves on. It's part of why she likes him so much.
She probably deserves it if he's dropped her dagger and bow down a well, though he wouldn't need to stay up all night for that. But she's too busy trying to learn new names and places and methods to have time to worry about it.
At least Master Ewan doesn't get angry like Master Mott did when she admits that she doesn't know how to adjust horseshoes or the right mix of ores to cast a plow. And he gives the other sneering apprentices a measuring look before explaining, patient and deliberate.
“Well, Gendry, I get that you're used to makin' fine filigree and plate armor for fancy folk, but the Crossroads is a traveler's town. Most of our custom is in horseshoes and farm equipment, and that I can teach you like I taught all these arseholes, though some seem to have forgotten. You're not 'fraid of the horses anyway, which is more than I can say for some first startin' out,” he mentions, and one of the apprentices ducks his head and glares at his boots, cheeks burning as the others hoot at him instead.
She wishes it weren't overcast and gloomy- the comet is almost at its closest pass and would be huge in the sky if not for the clouds.
She's carting coal in the evening when she spots Stark banners coming up the road.
Her eyes widen with confusion.
How could they have possibly gotten here so quickly?
And why are they riding north?
She stops, waiting for them to come closer, trying to see who Father must have sent down south when she chokes with shock.
There's Father. And just behind him, Jory Cassel, Syrio Forel and...
Her.
Something snaps in her chest at the sight of her chattering thirteen year old self, her vision going black as she's yanked backwards out of Gendry's body--
--and slams back into her own with a gasp. Father is kneeling next to her on a wagon, it smells like smoke and everything is hazy and foggy. She can hear people shouting and horses making sounds of distress- there's confusion and chaos milling around them.
But she finally understands.
“Arya?! Answer me! Did you hit your head in the blast? Your eyes rolled back and you-”
She shuts her eyes and shakes her head in horrified denial, clutching at her chest with her tied hands, knowing she's just felt the bond between them break. “...I left him. I left him five years ago.”
Arya desperately wants to ride south, to at least try to make amends for what she's done, all unknowing.
But it seems Gendry's stranded her right back.
Every horse they own is missing at least one shoe. And there's no longer a castle or associated town nearby: the Twins are now twin crater lakes on the Green Fork.
House Frey is gone. And House Stark escaped the same fate by mere hours.
Everybody is resentful and grateful all at once, except Roslin, who is beside herself with grief.
When asked if Bran had told her somehow, Arya can only tell the truth: she has no idea. And while the explanation Father gives is that she must have hit her head during the blast, it hurts to know she can no longer write a note to ask.
And she still shudders at the too real memory of that dream. Of her ears bleeding from deafening thunder and a fireball plummeting down too fast. Of blinding light before utter darkness.
She's sure that was what Gendry was doing- saving them. He'd stayed up all night to do so.
Why, when she'd wronged him so badly? And how had he known?
A week later, Grey Wind comes trotting up with a new leather collar on. He's obviously made the journey from Winterfell directly, with a minimum of rest and food, and Robb greets his direwolf with both delight and grave concern. Sansa hurries to get water and food for him as Robb lavishes him with praise and pats.
Clever of Bran- no raven could have found them with no rookery left, and a man on a horse would never have made the journey so quickly or found them so unerringly.
There's a message wrapped around some nails in a small pouch on the collar.
Father reads aloud, obviously shaken. “...Bran says The Wall has been breached by another piece of the comet. He's called the banners. The Wall... ” He shakes his head and gives Arya a searching look before he continues. “...He apologizes for the inconvenience but is thankful we survived. Advises that we might find some usable nails driven into the dirt. Says he's sending a smith down to help with the rest. ...I don't recall a Gendry at Mikken's?” he says to Robb, who also shakes his head.
Arya's head snaps up, eyes wide. “Who did you say?”
“It's an unusual name- I may not be saying it correctly.” Father says, frowning. His thoughts are already elsewhere, and he sets down the message. “Cat, I want you, Sansa, Roslin and Ben to head to your sister's in the Eyrie. You'll be safer there from the war in the south.”
He doesn't mention the imminent threat from the North, but he doesn't have to.
“Ser Rodrick- take these nails. Re-shod what horses you can, and escort them there. Take at least twenty men- the Hill tribes can be troublesome. The rest of us will wait for this smith and head back North.”
He looks bleak. “We double the daily drills in bow and sword until he arrives. Winter is coming.”
They all bow their heads and move to obey. But before she leaves, Arya picks up Bran's message from the makeshift table.
And though tears spring to her eyes when she re-reads it, she smiles for the first time in weeks.
At least all the food they'd brought for the wedding ends up helping them to feed themselves.
Father trades some of the fine wine for supplies and access to wells from local farmers as well- they're only supposed to be passing though, and instead they've been camped for days. The horses need hay once they've grazed the grass down to nubs, and hauling back all the Arbor gold and Dornish red will slow them down anyway.
Being able to drink good wine helps keep up morale when faced with the same grain porridge at every meal too.
And if her eyes go hopefully to the road more often than most, nobody notices- they're all looking out for that smith; anxious to get back to Winterfell.
Arya's asked Father to have the men practice shooting around daybreak and sunset- Bran said the last battle would be at night and while they can't afford to waste their few torches, it's better practice than sighting targets in daylight.
It's funny, that odd sense she gets, but she straightens and shouts for the men to hold their shots when she feels something familiar at the back of her skull.
“...Nymeria?” she calls, scanning the lengthening shadows towards the east. It takes her only a moment before she spots the fluid shape of her direwolf racing towards her.
“Nymeria! What are you doing here? Did Bran send you too?” she gasps, laughing at the enthusiastic greeting she gets, rubbing her ears and struggling to remain standing upright. Nymeria bounds around her in circles between happy licks, utterly pleased with herself. There's no collar on her the way there was with Grey Wind, and she's not lean and bedraggled, so Bran hasn't sent her as a courier. Therefore...
“...Did you come with Gendry? Where is he?”
Nymeria pants with delight and then ducks between her legs, lifting her off the ground.
Arya's eyes widen. “...You want me to ride-!”
She squawks with surprise, instinctively staying low and trying to grab hold without yanking at her fur as Nymeria starts to lope back towards the road.
Her heart leaps as they cover ground quickly and she spots a single rider pulling a dray in the distance.
Arya's heartbeat is loud in her ears and almost painful in her chest. The driver has picked up his pace now that he's spotted them too, and she's so happy that her breath is coming in shudders and her eyes are wet.
It's him. It's him. Oh gods.
His hair is shorn short, and his facial hair is just stubble instead of the short beard and mustache she used to run curious fingers over. He's broader across the chest and shoulders than she remembers, and dressed in warm winter clothing instead of the leather vest.
But she'd know him anywhere.
“Gendry?!”
“Arya?!”
Afterwards, Arya doesn't even remember jumping off Nymeria as he pulls his horse to a stop and leaps off the dray towards her. Tears run down her face as she studies the awestruck smile on his face, how those beautiful blue eyes are filled with tears at the sight of her too. She reaches out with a trembling hand, half expecting it to go right through him.
But he's solid and warm under her fingertips, and her laugh sounds like a strangled sob.
“Gendry. Gendry. You're here. You're here.”
He smiles tenderly, and he reaches out and cups her cheek in his hand, carefully tracing her cheekbone with his thumb and laughing shakily.
“...Unshod all your horses. Figured I'd better fix that.”
She hiccups before she throws her arms around him, too overwhelmed to speak, and they just hold each other tight for a long moment.
“...I'm sorry,” she finally gasps against his chest, “I didn't mean to leave you. I thought- I thought-”
His arms tighten around her. “I know. I thought so too, when it was happening. It's all right.”
“It's not!” she protests. “You were all alone and I didn't think to bring your tools-”
He groans and shakes his head, but he almost sounds amused. “...Yeah, that was bad. But you still saved my life.”
She shakes her head bitterly. “I didn't! I was years too early!”
“You did. Arya.” Gendry frames her face in his hands, and Arya lifts her eyes to his miserably. She hates that she was too stupid to figure it out until it was too late.
“If I'd stayed in King's Landing, King Joffrey would have had my head on a spike weeks ago. Since I was at the Crossroads, I was ahead of the sellswords. And when I saw my name on that bounty poster, it all finally made sense.”
Arya shakes her head, still unwilling to accept forgiveness so easily, but Gendry continues.
“'sides, if I hadn't learned to smith at the Crossroads, I wouldn't have been able to save you and your family. Mott only taught me to make things for soldiers and knights. Never learned shoeing and bits and tackle 'til I had to start over.”
That confuses her. “But... how did you know that we would need saving?”
Her eyes widen when he hesitates to answer. “...We were supposed to die, weren't we? That wasn't just a dream. That's why it felt so real.” She shudders despite herself.
Gendry shakes his head, his brow furrowed and eyes intense. “Went to Winterfell. Made an offering to your old gods.” He shows her his bandaged hand. “Did it over in you instead. Did it better.”
Her mouth drops open with horror, and she gently takes hold of his injured hand. She knows all too well the way it's seeping through the bandage.
“But why?” Why would anyone go to such lengths for her, for her family, unless...
He strokes his thumb tenderly over her cheekbone again, and his eyes meet hers just as hopefully before he smiles. “...You know why.”
The sun slips under the horizon, dimming the world around them, but the joy flaring in her makes her feel like they're standing in full daylight. “Oh, Gendry...”
She reaches up on tiptoe and kisses him.
Before this, Arya had always felt the most alert and intensely alive while wielding a weapon; facing an opponent. But even with her eyes shut, she's acutely aware of everything about Gendry: how right he tastes and smells, how every inch of her skin almost tingles as his hands clutch her close and he kisses her back eagerly. He groans as she slides her tongue against his, and she can feel his heartbeat racing as fast as hers as their bodies press together.
Nothing has ever felt so blissfully good. She wants to kiss Gendry forever.
And she might have-- it's properly dusk when Nymeria alerts them with a warning bark, and they reluctantly pull away.
Arya looks towards where Nymeria's faced, still breathing hard, and she exhales with exasperation and steps away from Gendry when she spots Robb riding towards them on Grey Wind.
Hopefully he didn't see what they were doing in the dim light, especially from a distance.
The concern and confusion on his face is evident enough when he arrives. “Arya! The men said Nymeria ran up during target practice and then spirited you off! Who's this then?”
She keeps her Game face on and lifts a shoulder dismissively. “She was just excited to see me after being so long away. Robb, this is Gendry, the blacksmith Bran sent. Gendry, this is my brother, Robb Stark.”
Gendry dips his head respectfully. “Milord. Bran says I'm to help re-shoeing horses. Brought everything I need to do that, and we traveled fast as we could.”
Robb's eyes narrow slightly before he nods, and Arya struggles to keep her expression bland. “Appreciate that. Welcome, Gendry. We'll bring you to Father right away- the whole camp's been keenly awaiting your arrival.” He frowns. “You traveled from Winterfell alone?”
“No, milord. Jojen and Meera and Summer came with us down the Kingsroad until we reached the fork for the Twins.”
Robb's brow furrows. “You're familiar with the Reeds, then?” He pauses. “Just you and Nymeria on that last leg? I thought Nymeria didn't abide strangers,” he says to Arya.
Arya wishes Robb weren't so annoyingly observant. “...She doesn't,” she admits.
Gendry looks at Robb warily and gives an awkward shrug. “...Didn't like me at first. Bran had to introduce us. Fairly used to me now, though.”
As if to illustrate his point, Nymeria trots over to demand a scratch from him, her jaw falling open with pleasure as he indulges her.
Robb looks grudgingly impressed. “You're one up on most of Winterfell, then, smith. Direwolves are choosy, and Nymeria in particular. Come, we need to get you to Father and you'll want supper and rest. You've had a long journey and you'll likely have a long day tomorrow,” he says, giving Gendry a friendly clap on the shoulder, and Gendry nods and gives Arya a wistful smile before he gives Nymeria a dismissive pat and turns back to his horse and dray.
Arya struggles to rein in her irritation and calls to Nymeria. If her interfering brother hadn't showed up, Gendry's hands would still be on her.
She hopes he isn't too tired to reunite properly later, once Robb isn't around to frown suspiciously at them.
Robb handles the introductions too, which is simple protocol since he thinks they're strangers, but it irks her anyway. “Father, this is Gendry, the smith Bran sent. Gendry, my father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.”
Father's eyes widen when he sees him in the torchlight. “...Welcome, Gendry. You seem familiar, somehow- have we met before?”
Gendry raises his eyes nervously before he swallows and lowers his eyes again. “We have, milord. 'Bout five years ago, in Tobho Mott's shop in King's Landing, though you might not remember.”
Father's mouth drops open and he gives Arya a startled look before he steps closer to Gendry.
“...A smith with a Flea Bottom accent. That Bran sent.” He huffs a grim laugh and dips his head. “...That was you somehow, up all night taking the shoes off the horses, wasn't it?”
Arya's mouth drops open with dismay and she steps in front of Gendry, automatically reaching for her dagger. “You can't punish him for that! That was me. I did it!”
“Arya! Stand down.” The startled rebuke comes from both Robb and Father.
“No! This isn't right!”
Father keeps looking between her and Gendry with a kind of regretful understanding, and behind her, Gendry speaks low. “Arya. He knows. Your father spoke to me after-”
“Shut up!” Arya whispers, giving Gendry a desperate look. “You've already cut open your hand- I won't let him take it too!” She turns back, determined. “Father, please. Somebody caught me doing it, right?”
Robb gives her an appalled look. “You don't remember?”
She glares at him. “...Doesn't matter. I claim full-”
Father interrupts her sharply, holding up his hand. “Arya! I need you to stop leaping to conclusions before I finish what I have say. Now stand down.”
She obeys reluctantly, though she's still ready to leap to Gendry's defense.
Father sighs and continues. “...Gendry, I asked you a question.”
Gendry gives her an apologetic glance before he meets her father's eye. “...It was me, milord. We spoke after the fall, in the wagon, so you know why. I'm here now to put it right again.”
Robb's gobsmacked expression would be comical if Arya wasn't so desperately worried. But Father just nods gravely like this was the answer he expected.
“...Well, Gendry, it appears that I, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, am in your debt. And if memory serves, Stannis Baratheon granted both a knighthood and lordship to the smuggler who saved him and his men from starvation. I could do no less by the man who saved both my men and my family from certain death.”
For perhaps the first time in her life, Arya is stunned speechless.
“...I can't- I'm just a bastard,” Gendry stammers, clearly bewildered.
Father raises his brows in acknowledgement and smiles. “Ser Davos Seaworth also hailed from Flea Bottom. A good man, loyal and brave, and better at negotiations using his plain words than most nobles. After Prince Stannis raised his standing, he went on to become King Robert's Master of Ships.”
Arya looks back at Gendry with a hopeful smile, and he gives her a delighted smile in return before he looks back at her father.
“Milord, that would be- I'd be honored.”
Gendry talks seriously with Robb and Father over supper, passing on a sealed letter from Bran and reporting what he heard about the war down South on the way down the Kingsroad. He keeps looking over at her anyway, and Robb frowns every time he catches him at it, but Arya doesn't care anymore.
He'll be a lord and a knight. Maybe not the kind of marriage alliance Father and Mother might have hoped for, but still perfectly acceptable.
She chafes with impatience for supper to be over already so Robb and Father can go over Bran's letter instead.
She's missed him terribly; she aches to finally talk with him.
She wants to kiss him again, too. Hopefully do other things with their bodies now that they're finally together.
He's older now, but she imagines he looks even better with his shirt off than she remembers.
Gendry begs to rest early, citing the long journey and how unused he is to the fine wine he's been served, and she immediately steals away from the fire too.
She makes her way around the camp until she spots him at his dray, pulling out the tent he has stowed.
“Gendry,” she says quietly, and he starts before he turns to her with a smile.
“Oh, Arya,” he groans, pulling her close. “Can you believe it? I'dve been happy just to save you all. I never dreamed...”
She laughs, giddy all over again herself. “...Me neither. Are you really tired? I was hoping to go walking, but if you're weary...”
He grins and kisses her. “Arya Stark. Didn't ride a thousand miles to find you just to sleep through it.”
He pauses then, brow furrowed. “...Well, actually, the Heart Tree might have-”
She rolls her eyes and laughs again, pulling on his arm. “Come on. I promise I'm lots more fun than Marna.”
He chuckles and follows without complaint.
“He did not really say that!”
“I swear he did! He was really put out.”
“Well, I was just being honest!”
“Well, I think you hurt his feelings. You could have pointed out the good bits, like the tail. And then maybe given him a little advice. Like, to maybe make them smaller so they could bake faster.”
“Come on! It wasn't even cooked through the middle and you're giving me grief about it?”
“So you say something like, “it was unexpectedly doughy”.”
“That's not even a word! Ah, doesn't matter now, anyway- I'm sure he figured it out in the end. Hope he's all right with the war and all goin' on down there.”
“...Think he ever worked up the nerve to ask out that miller girl?”
“Naw. Us King's Landing boys wait for the girls to say things first.”
“...True. But maybe he was also smart enough to show her how he felt without having to spell it out.”
“Hot Pie can't spell. Can't read either, I don't think. ...What's so funny?”
“...I can't believe you're going to be a lord!”
“Well-! Can't believe you're a lady either!”
“...Well, you like me anyway.”
“...I don't just like you.”
“...I don't just like you, either.”
They end up at one of the grain wagons: far enough away from the main body of the camp so nobody can happen upon them. She spreads her cloak over the grain sacks, and he puts his over them to keep out the cold once the kissing and touching starts leading to clothing being shed.
It's both exciting and new and yet somehow like coming home. They know each other's bodies so well, but it's utterly thrilling to finally be able to explore the fine shape of him with her own hands; feel the heat of his skin pressed against every inch of her and his strong arms holding her instead of just imagining him. She loves the naked emotion in his eyes when he looks at her, the reverence in his voice when he moans her name like he can barely believe this is really happening.
She's trusted him with her body for so long; he's trusted her with his. It just feels right to join them together at last.
Septa Mordane had warned her to guard her maidenhead because losing it would hurt, but she should have known a septa would have made it out to be far worse than it was. Once past the initial discomfort, she loves how intimate it is; how connected they feel; how his pleasure is tied to hers as they move together, building in intensity until it explodes through both of them.
And somehow, she likes that the red comet is glowing over them the whole time. Even if it tore them apart once, it brought them back together, too.
She'll remember it as the best night of her life. Between bouts of lovemaking, they talk and kiss and laugh. There's so much to tell him, so many questions she never asked.
He seems to feel the same way, and he's cuddled behind her, gently touching her tits when he asks:
“Why didn't you ever tell me about the prophecy?”
She stills, sobering despite how good it feels as he traces little circles. “How was I supposed to tell you? 'Hey Gendry, by the way, on my thirteenth nameday three seers went into a trance and proclaimed me Azor Ahai come again. Don't worry, I'm only supposed to die before I defeat Death itself, hopefully it won't happen while you're using my body!'”
He scoffs and presses a kiss to her neck. “Well, it's important. And you should have told me.”
She sighs and cuddles back against him. “I know, but... Even with all the training, with Bran and Jojen being Greenseers, it always felt like just a fanciful story, somehow. I'm only good at dispatching opponents; at killing. And Azor Ahai wasn't just a warrior.”
Gendry's hands still. “He was also a smith.”
“...Exactly. It never made sense to me- and then I woke up in your body and thought it was my chance at last. But I was still terrible at making things.”
She feels Gendry smile against the back of her neck and she scowls and elbows him.
“Ow! Hey!”
“I can't believe you're laughing at me!”
His mouth falls open. “Oh, come off it, Arya- nobody's good at everything. And that armor that first day- I thought it was supposed to be scrap. And then Mott found the ore and I seriously thought he was going to pitch me out on the street.”
She has to smile at that, and she rolls her eyes, mollified. “...Fine.”
“'Sides, you helped me forge so many things, even if you weren't the one holding the hammer in the end. You traded for the leather in Needle's pommel and holster- you know that? Probably carted all the coal and ore used in her forging too.”
Her eyes widen and she turns to look at him. “I did? My Needle?”
He nods. “Did my head in to think about it at first. Anyway, highborns don't have to worry about havin' a trade, and we're never going to switch again besides.”
“...I know. But do you know what happens to Valyrian steel swords after wars are won? They get hung on walls; locked in castles- just useless trophies. Or they're lost: Dark Sister simply disappeared on some mission above The Wall. I figured... the latter would be my fate, in the end. I've been training for years; a blade honed for a single purpose. I'm not useful in any other way- can't sew or cook or even smith; couldn't even imagine lying under some pompous lord and popping out babies. And none of the seers ever said anything about an after.”
She's always kept these suspicions locked up inside her, but Gendry has to understand. “...I think when I kill the Night King, I'll probably die doing it. Cheating Death twice would surely be too many times, and he's an immortal with magic at his command and I'm just... me. But I never minded having a destiny like that, if I got to save everybody else- until I met you.”
And she knows it's selfish, but it's the truth. “...I want to keep loving you. I'm not done- we've just barely started.”
He doesn't answer for a long moment, just tightening his arms around her and rubbing his hand soothingly over her hair. “...Not done loving you, either. So, I guess if you die again, I'll just have to cut my hand until the old gods make it right.”
She snorts with laughter against his chest. “That's not how that works!”
But she knows he's dead serious- and that eases that knot inside her somehow.
Arya wakes up disoriented when something prods her in the butt. It's way too bright, and shifting even a little makes her aware of how sore she is between her legs.
She opens her eyes with a gasp when she instantly recalls why. Gendry's arm is thrown over her waist, and they're both still naked under his cloak. Despite their original plans to stay up all night again, they must have fallen asleep, too replete and content to resist.
His cock is hard against her ass like it wants to go again though, and she has to laugh quietly to herself when she turns to look at him.
Gendry startles awake when he feels her move- he's obviously not used to sharing a bed, and she inhales at the rush of emotion she gets when an anxious expression crosses his face and he reaches out hesitantly with his bandaged hand.
But he smiles with relief when he touches her cheek, and that smile widens when she deliberately puts her hand on top of his.
As romantic as it had been, making love to him under the comet's dim red glow, she thinks she prefers seeing him awash in morning sunshine like this.
They both speak at once, with wondrous joy:
“Good morning, Gendry.”
“Morning, Arya.”
